


Comin' Home, Baby!

by noodlerdoodler



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Diego Hargreeves, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Diego Hargreeves has ADHD, Diego Hargreeves is Bad at Feelings, Diego Hargreeves-centric, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlerdoodler/pseuds/noodlerdoodler
Summary: Fiddling with his empty holster, (he felt strangely vulnerable without his knives), Diego wondered what had happened to the rest of his siblings. Part of him hoped that they had made it out of the Icarus Theatre alive, crashing somewhere else in Dallas, but a larger part of him was doubtful. He didn’t understand how time travel worked exactly but Five hadn’t mentioned anything about them potentially being separated from each other. If it was a possibility, wouldn't he have mentioned it? It was hard not to assume the worst.“Yeah, we’ve picked up the nutcase from 1026 North Beckley Street,” One of the officers, the one lounging in the passenger seat, chuckled into his radio, “Reckons he’s saved the president’s life. Better get someone from Shinyview down at the station.”-Diego Hargreeves spent 75 days in a mental institution before he escaped.This is what happened. Canon compliant!
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Grace Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Reginald Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & The Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves/Eudora Patch, Diego Hargreeves/Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 81





	1. September 01 1963

One of Diego’s biggest flaws, in his father’s eyes at least, was that he never stopped to think. He was a “shoot first, ask questions later” kind of person and had been since early childhood- though it would be more accurate to say “throw knives first”. According to the notes he’d skimmed, Diego was an insolent brat with little to no impulse control and a borderline useless power. Yeah, thanks, Dad. It was hardly like his father was a saint himself.

Still, as his head was slammed violently onto the police car and his hands were cuffed together, Diego regretted that he hadn’t stopped to come up with a plan. As soon as he’d seen a handful of Kennedy’s speaking on the screens in the television store, he had realised what the year was. He realised that he had time. And his feet were moving before he’d even realised where he was heading. 

Wouldn’t you save the President of the United States if you had the chance? 

“You don’t understand, he’s going to kill the president!” Diego growled. 

He was rewarded for his efforts by a face full of metal, as a police officer grabbed him by the back of his shirt and slammed him against the hood of the car again. Blood was a familiar metallic taste in his mouth as he was yanked to his feet and forced into the back of police car, sirens blaring. It had taken six officers to pin him down, which Diego couldn’t help being proud of, but it was game over as soon as they cuffed him and stripped him of his knives.

Having racial slurs spat at him in the process was really just the cherry on top. 

As he sat in the back of the police car, staring wistfully out of the window at Lee Harvey Oswald’s house, Diego realised for the first time what his father meant. Rushing in without stopping to consider the consequences may be heroic but it was also idiotic to stalk around someone’s house with a knife in hand. He should’ve broken the window and laid in wait for Oswald inside instead. Then, the stupid nosy neighbours wouldn't have called the cops to report a "deranged man with many knives" lurking outside. 

Fiddling with his empty holster, (he felt strangely vulnerable without his knives), Diego wondered what had happened to the rest of his siblings. Part of him hoped that they had made it out of the Icarus Theatre alive, crashing somewhere else in Dallas, but a larger part of him was doubtful. He didn’t understand how time travel worked exactly but Five hadn’t mentioned anything about them potentially being separated from each other. If it was a possibility, wouldn't he have mentioned it? It was hard not to assume the worst. 

“Yeah, we’ve picked up the nutcase from 1026 North Beckley Street,” One of the officers, the one lounging in the passenger seat, chuckled into his radio, “Reckons he’s saved the president’s life. Better get someone from Shinyview down at the station.” 

It took everything in him not to kick the officer’s seat. Diego settled for scowling at it. 

Although he’d spent time at police stations in the past- hell, he’d even trained at the police academy- it hadn’t usually been like this. He was wrestled roughly out of the back seat, even though he was more than capable of walking, and was dragged by the collar of his shirt. When Diego was yanked forwards and consequently stumbled over his feet, the officers laughed at him. 

One made a snide comment about how “people like him” couldn’t even walk upright like the rest of them. Blood boiling, Diego thrashed violently, trying to break free of their grip, but only succeeded in getting shoved roughly towards the station entrance. 

“We’ve got a 10-91V for you, Miller,” It was all just a big racist joke to the officers who brought him in and if Diego had been expecting better at the station, he was sorely mistaken. The men laughed at their funny joke, assuming it flew over his head completely, but Diego had smuggled a police radio years ago and was familiar with their codes. _10-91V_. A vicious animal. Fucking hilarious. 

“Shinyview are dispatching someone in the morning. Can't be bothered with him right now,” The police officer he was pushed over to didn’t handle him any gentler, pulling him by the ear so that he hissed in pain, “Looks like someone’s lucky enough to get an overnight stay.”

What the hell was Shinyview and why were they sending someone to get him? He didn't get a chance to ask. 

Again, it wasn’t the first, second, or even third time that Diego had been in a holding cell. It wasn't even the first time this week. When you’re a vigilante with a fondness for knives, you tend to get caught up in plenty of misunderstandings. It was the only time, however, that he’d been in a segregated holding cell and humiliated by the officers loudly debating if there was even a cell for “people like him”. It was clear from their tone that they didn’t mean ‘time travellers’ or even ‘crazy people’- Hispanics obviously weren't popular in 1963 Dallas. 

There was a degrading debate about what his skin colour was and they kept grabbing his chin roughly to study him closely, while Diego fought the urge to beat the living shit out of them. In the end, they settled for the “coloured cell” and just hearing the phrase sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t help thinking of his sister, Allison, if she was even alive, being out there alone. When they were little, Diego had beaten up anyone who had been mean to her or to any of his other siblings. 

He was pretty incapable of doing anything to help them now. The guards locked him in the cell and he spat at their feet. 

“I’m not crazy! Oswald’s planning to kill the president, I’ve seen it!” Diego rattled the bars fruitlessly as the police officers walked away, still laughing at him, “I’m not crazy! It's going to happen, in November, when he visits Dallas-" 

A few other men (no women) were sat in the cell, politely ignoring him as he resorted to stalking up and down the length of the cell angrily. He got the impression that it wasn’t just the police who thought he was crazy, the way that everyone in the room was nervously avoiding his gaze. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, making it impossible to relax. Frustrated, Diego hammered his fists so hard against the bars that a guard threatened to physically restrain him if he didn’t quit it. 

In defeat, he collapsed in the corner of the cell and massaged his bleeding knuckles. Diego pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his head on them. Anger continued to pulse in his chest and occasionally, he muttered darkly to himself under his breath. Was he turning into Klaus, talking to thin air avidly? He was certainly being treated like a certified lunatic. 

Slowly, the endless night dragged on without much happening. The most he had to do was give his name when a police officer came asking for it, wanting to check their records for his "other offences". They made it sound like he must be a hardened criminal, no question about it. 

For the most part, Diego just picked at the scabs forming on his knuckles and thought about the events that had landed him here, in 1963. Not only had there been the revelation about Vanya having powers, they had found out she was the most powerful of the bunch of them and that she was more than capable of killing. She killed Leonard, Pogo, and M-Mom. Nearly killed Allison. She’d suspended him in mid-air, literally draining the life out of him. And then, Vanya had literally brought about the end of the world by accident. 

While him and Vanya had grown apart as adults, they’d been close as teenagers. Out of assured mutual hatred towards their father, the two of them had formed a punk band and used to play gigs together. It had been a glimpse of happiness in their solitary lives. Seeing her filled with white blinding hatred towards him last night had hurt. So did the knowledge that he’d let her down. Repeatedly. 

Exhausted, Diego must’ve dozed off without realising it. He was woken suddenly by his shoulder being shaken. At first, he thought he was back there at the Icarus Theatre, having dreamt about it, and reflexively threw up a fist to protect himself. The police officer leaning over him reeled away with a groan as he blinked himself awake. Diego didn't apologise. 

“On your feet, nutcase,” The man snapped.

It wasn’t like Diego got much choice in the matter, as he was pulled roughly to his feet and out of the cell. Bleary with sleep, it took him a moment to remember where he was and realise that he had an uncomfortable crick in his neck from sleeping in a sitting position. He hadn't slept well in days now, so Diego wasn’t awake enough to fight back as he was lead into an interrogation room and sat down. 

Opposite him, across a table, was a man with glasses and a gentle voice. Instantly, Diego hated him. 

“Good morning, Diego,” It was the first time that anyone had used his actual name and he didn’t like the way it rolled off the man’s tongue, like he'd practiced it beforehand, “I’m Dr Moncton. It’s nice to meet you.”

A police officer pulled up a chair in the corner of the room, keeping a wary eye on them. 

It took Diego a moment to process. This must be the man they’d sent from Shinyview, which must be some kind of hospital, and he must be here to check on his injuries. After all, he’d gotten a nasty bruising on his face from where the guards had been rough with him and still had lingering injuries from the bowling alley fight. Had that really only been yesterday?

The man leaned forward, looking curious, “I’m just going to ask some questions, if that’s okay with you?”

Again, Diego didn’t really get any choice in this. It wasn't like he could just get up and leave. 

Without waiting for an answer, Dr Moncton launched into an endless list of questions, most of them pretty trivial, and frowned as he noted answers on the clipboard. It must be some kind of protocol to get patient’s information before checking their injuries, an insurance thing. Though, Diego was going to be shit out of luck if they asked which insurance company he was with- it didn’t even exist yet. 

“I don’t need any help,” He told the doctor hastily, this in mind. 

Dr Moncton gave him a sympathetic look, “Of course, you don’t. Nobody is doubting you, Diego. But we need to understand what you were doing outside Mr Oswald’s house, heavily armed, with the intention of attacking him. What made you think he was planning an attack on the president?”

Shouldn’t it be a police officer asking these questions? Once again, he was too irritated to stop and ask questions. 

Defensively, Diego folded his arms across his chest, “I just know he’s going to. I’ve seen it.”

Of course, he couldn’t really delve into the details of time travel and his brother being able to harness it without sounding like a truly crazy person. In fact, Diego had needed to dodge most of the doctor's questions or reply with half-truths, since nobody knew about the Umbrella Academy in 1963. Hell, he hadn't even been born yet. His answer seemed to satisfy the doctor, though, who seemed to conclude that he’d gotten enough information out of him. Hopefully, Dr Moncton would patch him up now, (he was aching all over from the last few days of non-stop action), and Diego would be able to get out on bail. Then, he could get Oswald. 

However, before any of his injuries could even get looked at, Diego was once again being seized against his will by the observing officer and dragged out of the room. Nobody mentioned where they were taking him. At this point, he had no idea what was going on as he was frog-marched by two men past the holding cells and through the police station. Although he welcomed the fresh air that greeted him in the parking lot, Diego still twisted around to look at where Dr Moncton was now standing by the entrance and yelled for him to help.

The man just gave him a sad smile as Diego was wrestled back into the cop car. 

“Tell me where you’re taking me right now,” He demanded, trying to wriggle free of the cuffs they’d hooked around his wrists again.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, one of the officers suggested, “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll take you out back and shoot you myself.”

Laughter filled his ears and Diego forced himself to bite his tongue, fury in his eyes. There was no time to chew the idiots out, he needed to think fast about how to get out of here. Wherever they were taking him, Diego was sure he wouldn't want to be there. He took advantage of the fact that the cops didn’t be particularly interested in him to inspect potential methods of escape, shuffling closer to the door. Even in the 60s, the police were smart enough to lock the doors from the outside and there was no way he’d be able to pry it open. Diego was contemplating whether he could throw his body at the window without enough force to break the glass when the car came to a stop.

Looking out the window, Diego guessed that they were parked outside some kind of hospital. Maybe his injuries were worse than they’d expected, so they’d brought him here to get stitches or something? He doubted it. 

Then, his eyes caught onto the sign: _Shinyview Hospital for the Mentally Ill_. 

Oh, shit! He knew they thought he was crazy but this was way too far. Seeing orderlies approaching the car, Diego forced himself to keep his expression neutral and relax his body language so that they didn’t expect anything. He needed to keep the element of surprise on his side if he was going to have a chance here. During their military-like childhood, Reginald Hargreeves had trained all of his children for hostage situations and Diego silently thanked him for it right now. Keeping his head down, he played the part of the subdued patient as he was let out of the car and got to his feet. His hands were still cuffed tightly behind him, metal rubbing his wrists. 

Like at the station, an orderly took him from each side and a third one moved behind him. As if he was planning to clamber back into the cop car and plead to go back to the holding cell. Diego bit back a smirk. Obediently, he walked a few steps forward before he struck.

First, he was able to rip one arm free by throwing his shoulder up and breaking the orderly’s nose with a satisfying crack. The man stumbled backwards, blood flowing freely down his face, and Diego spun around to lodge a kick in the ribs of the other orderly. A shot alerted him to the fact that the police were firing on him but he threw his linked hands up reflexively. Instinctively, Diego was able to flick the trajectory of the bullets around so that both cops were taken out. One got hit in the side, the other in the leg. A knee to the crotch, followed by a knock to the chest, took out the third orderly and Diego took that as his cue to pelt across the parking lot. 

He was certainly awake now as his stupid bowling shoes pounded against the asphalt and he skidded to a halt, trying to work out which direction to go. Hesitation proved to be his downfall, as one of the orderlies must’ve scraped themselves off the floor and managed to grab hold of him by his shirt. He yelped as he stumbled backwards, a pair of arms wrapping tightly around his chest. They called out that they had a “runner”. Diego kicked back furiously at this as he was wrestled to the floor and he heard the doors of the building swing open and feet patter out. 

“Careful, he’s strong,” voices murmured above him, which was satisfying at least.

He recognised Dr Moncton’s voice, “Sedate him.”

He must've taken his own car from the station, not wanting to ride with someone he thought was "mentally ill". Bastard. 

“Wait, wait-“ Diego protested, realising what he wouldn’t have a chance of escape if they sedated him, “No, wait, I-“

As it turned out, they didn’t have to stick him. Managing to lift his head off the asphalt, coughing from the force of someone holding him down by his neck, Diego saw that an orderly was leering over him. Something was in their hand. He caught sight of the needle, glittering in the morning sunlight, and immediately passed out. It felt like he was falling into nothingness as the world went black. 

They were lucky he hadn’t thrown up on their shoes.


	2. September 04 1963

When he’d woken up, Diego had found himself in a huge padded room. Seriously. 

It was just like the ones he’d seen in movies. He didn’t think they’d ever actually been used in asylums, that they were nothing more than a Hollywood invention, though the fact that he was crumpled on the floor of one suggested otherwise. He was lying on his front, his head turned to the side so that his cheek was pressed against the white floor. Everything was white and soft, almost like he was trapped inside a giant marshmallow, but the vivid colour just made him shiver. It reminded him too much of Vanya and her violin. 

He would’ve preferred black. 

Trying to push himself off the floor, he found that his arms were strapped to his torso and he couldn’t move them. He didn’t know that straitjackets had been used either but they made it damn impossible to use his arms, which he guessed was the point. Frustrated at this, Diego inched his way across the padded floor and used the wall to force himself up into a sitting position. It took more than a few attempts to prop himself upright, as his movements were awkward and sluggish. His head felt groggy, as if his brain had melted into a soup and his thoughts were floating around in it, and licking his lips didn’t remove the feeling of sandpaper in his mouth. 

How long had he been out exactly? Diego wasn’t sure. They’d definitely stuck him with a strong sedative if the numbness of his limbs, (and the way his train of thought had slowed down to a crawl), was anything to go by. Not only that, someone had stripped him of his clothes and redressed him in a hideous white ensemble from head to toe. He wasn’t sure which was more disturbing: the fact that that strangers had removed his clothes while he was unconscious or the outfit they’d opted to put him in. Seriously, white? Not his colour.

Now, Diego understood why his brother, Klaus, hated these places so much. He felt so... Violated. 

He wasn’t sure how long it was until he heard the faint jangle of keys. Looking up, Diego saw a white woman, dressed in scrubs with sharp, hawk-like features, open the door. She didn’t look particularly pleased to see him, though he supposed he was barely lucid and drooling on his shirt. God only knew when he’d last showered. Based on how the last 24 hours had gone and the harsh frown lines on her forehead, Diego expected the nurse to bark something racist at him and then leave him here to rot. 

Tired and aching, right down to his bones, he struggled to scowl at her. 

“It’s Diego, isn’t it?” The woman’s soft voice didn’t match her expression or demeanour, “It’s nice to see you awake for once, honey. You've been out of it for a while," She produced a paper cup filled with water, "I thought you might be thirsty.”

Stubbornly, Diego jerked his head away when she crouched down beside him and tried to press the cup to his lips. A few drops of water sloshed over the top of the cup and splashed onto his ugly white pants. He closed his eyes, refusing to look at the woman. Even if he was dehydrated, even if his throat felt scratchy and his head throbbed, Diego couldn’t risk taking anything they gave him. They might be trying to drug him again, either with a sedative or something stronger. This was a hospital after all. They had a lot of drugs to hand.

Besides, Diego didn’t want to be treated like he was a baby, who wasn’t even capable of holding a cup. He was a grown ass man. 

“Hospital policy means we can’t let you out of the straitjacket until you’ve been assessed by a psychiatrist. Not even for drinking,” The nurse explained gently, touching his shoulder, “We don’t know if you’ll try to hurt yourself or someone else. Patient safety is very important to us.”

No doubt why they were willing to knock him out and lock him away until he came round. Clearly, his safety couldn't be that important to the staff of Shinyview. Grumpily, Diego ripped his shoulder away from her comforting touch and opened his eyes to glare silently at the ground. His throat felt dry, begging for him to drink something, anything. Still, he didn’t want to take water from this woman. Even if she was a nurse, Diego was hardly in a position to trust her. While he couldn’t manage any words, (his head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool and his mouth didn’t seem willing to cooperate), Diego managed an irritated grunt and turned his head to face the wall. 

The nice nurse sighed, sounding more sad than frustrated, “Come on, sweetheart, drink up. We need to keep you dehydrated. You wouldn’t want to be put on a drip, would you?”

Thinking about getting stuck with another needle sent a shiver down his spine and Diego managed to shake his head slightly, his movements rough and jerky. It was enough to get his point across and the nice nurse held the cup to his lips again. Reluctantly, he relented and gulped down the water so fast that he nearly choked on it. Some of it dribbled onto his shirt. It made him feel the tiniest bit better. 

“That’s a good boy," The nurse soothed, I’m going to go tell Dr Moncton that you’re awake. He’ll come and make sure you’re safe to come out. Then, we’ll get you all settled in, hm?” 

Part of him felt frustrated at this woman talking down to him, as if he was a little boy that had scraped his knee, and it made him want to struggle against her kind words. Lash out at her. He was a man, for god's sake, not a child. Not the basket case they thought he was. Another part of him was reminded of how his mother used to comfort him, coaxing his stammered sentences out of him and wrapping her arms around him when he cried. She'd always been so gentle with him.

Remembering when he’d last seen his mother, Grace, caused a whimper to creep past his lips and his eyes felt wet. She had waved at him, oblivious that she was in danger. Even as she had died, his mother had been smiling at him. Like she always did. Like she wanted to touch his cheek and call him _silly_ for making a fuss over her. Another pathetic noise, almost like a wail, escaped him against his will. Obviously, the stress of the last few days combined with the heavy drugs was beginning to take a toll on him. 

“Oh, Diego," The nurse gave him a sympathetic look, "It won’t be long until you’re back on your feet."

And then, he was locked in again. Despite his efforts, a warm tear rolled down his cheek. 

True to the nurse’s word, (he’d have to ask for his name next time he saw her, so that he could thank her properly), it wasn’t long until Dr Moncton came round and peered through the door’s window at him. Seeming satisfied that he wasn’t raving at the mouth, the doctor let himself in and closed the door behind him. In too many words, the man explained that he needed to check his vitals. Diego hated the idea of this stranger touching him, _examining him_ , but reluctantly complied as the man shone a light in his eyes and checked his pulse. 

If talking wasn't so fucking difficult, Diego would’ve pointed out that Moncton had done this to him. There was no need to act so concerned about his sluggish state when this was all the doctor’s fault in the first place. Damn fucking sedatives. 

“It’s good to see you lucid, Hargreeves,” Dr Moncton didn’t seem to be on a first name basis with him anymore, probably because he’d pissed him off, “The last few days, you’ve come round once or twice but seemed unaware of where you were. Started mumbling about your father. Several staff members who checked up on you went home with injuries,” He chuckled, “You’re a very angry young man.” 

The last few _days_? What the hell had they stuck him with? 

He’d been under general anaesthetics in the past and never before had he lost whole days to the darkness that followed them. Even when Diego had his tonsils out as a kid, he'd come round a few hours later. If the hospital was willing to administer sedatives that strong to their patients, Diego shuddered to think what else they’d be willing to do to him. Vaguely, he remembered from a movie he’d watched that they used to use electroconvulsive shock therapy to treat people in the 1960s. Thought that they could fry the craziness out of them if they cranked the voltage up high enough. He had to get out of here before Moncton thought of that. 

Licking his lips, Diego rasped, “Home…” 

“Oh no, Hargreeves, you can’t go home just yet,” Dr Moncton’s smile was patronising, “I spoke with the staff down at the police station and they agreed with my assessment. You are very ill," No, he wasn't sick, "Delusions, violent tendencies, aggressive behaviour…" Diego knew he wasn't sick, "You’ll be staying here until you’re well again.”

He wasn’t _fucking_ sick! Internally, Diego longed to yell at the foolish doctor that he wasn’t crazy. He really had come here from the future, knew what was going to happen on November 22nd, and had only been trying to save John Fitzgerald Kennedy from a nasty shot in the head. He wanted to scream at the man about his bitter sister, his dysfunctional family, and the confusing logistics of time travel... How they had all culminated in him ending up here. But, even if he had the capacity to yell, Diego sensed that it probably wouldn’t get him very far. 

A noise of frustration escaped his throat instead and he leaned back, electing to stare at the ceiling rather than the doctor’s smug face.

“I’ll be back in a few hours to run some tests,” Dr Moncton told him, straightening up, “There’s no point trying now when you’re so incoherent. Get some rest, Hargreeves.”

In his head, Diego cursed him out violently. So violently that if his father had heard him, he would've washed Diego's mouth out with a bar of soap like he had done when he was ten. All he managed externally was a half-hearted eye roll, which could easily be mistaken for the drifting of a lazy eye, and let his heavy eyelids fall shut. He listened to the door closing, locking, and footsteps retreating down what seemed like an endless corridor. Leaning his head against the soft wall, he drowsily dropped back into a restless sleep. 

By the time Dr Moncton returned, a few hours later, Diego was feeling a little less like his head had been stuffed with cotton candy and hit with a baseball bat. He was able to form words again, half-heartedly knocking on the door with his good shoulder and calling for somebody to come get him. He was ready to take the tests now, whatever they entailed. Though, Diego had never really tested particularly well: as a kid, he’d been repeatedly chastised by his father for not being able to sit still or concentrate in his lessons. He wriggled in his chair and chewed on his pencil. 

Allison used to tease him about it: _ants in your pants, Number Two?_

"Let's go, Hargreeves. You must be getting hungry," At least Moncton trusted him to walk by himself this time. 

The walk from the isolation room to Dr Moncton’s office was humiliating, especially as he was still trapped in the straitjacket. It was hard to look nonchalant and tough when his arms were tied to his sides. Some patients spared him curious looks as they passed by some kind of recreation room, where they seemed to be weaving baskets- something Klaus had already joked about becoming apt at in rehab centres. 

Trudging after the doctor, Diego wished that his brother was here with him to crack jokes about the tasteless white clothes and Freudian psychiatrists lingering about the place. _We’re in the Cuckoo’s Nest now, hey, Diego?_ he would've said gleefully, marvelling at the other patients and flirting with the staff. Klaus always had a knack for turning traumatising experiences into amusing in-jokes. 

“Please, sit down,” The doctor closed the door behind them, gesturing to an empty chair, "This shouldn't take too long if you behave yourself."

A sense of de ja vu came over him as he shuffled over to the chair and watched Dr Moncton sit down on the other side of the desk, rescuing a clipboard from a desk drawer. It was like the police station all over again, minus the racist officer eyeing him from the corner of the room. He wasn't sure if it was better or worse, that it was just him and the doctor now. Just the two of them. Moncton clicked the pen and Diego was reminded of how his father would take notes during their training sessions, sparing them disapproving looks over the top of his monocle. 

Dr Moncton spoke in a faux reassuring tone, “I’m going to show you some pictures, okay? Just tell me what you see in them.”

Oh, boy. Diego rolled his eyes. As he was in the 1960s, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that they were using outdated methods in their asylums but the Rorschach Test? Really? He knew exactly how this worked. A patient would be showed symmetrical ink blots on a page and asked what they saw in them- if they saw something sexual or violent, it meant they were disturbed. When they were kids, Five had taken a brief interest in psychology and tried the test out on each of them. Only Ben had come out with a fairly normal score. 

On the other hand, Diego had done just as badly as the rest of his brothers. Apparently, according to Dr Five, his tendencies to see blood and dead animals in the ink blots showed his repressed aggressive tendencies. He had said this with an air of superiority, as if he was years wiser than the rest of them. In response, Diego had kicked his chair over and stormed out of the room in a huff. 

This time, he wouldn’t fall for it. He wouldn't give himself away. 

For a long time, Diego feigned studying the first picture, “I can just see a stupid ink blot.”

The doctor just hummed affirmatively, scribbling down notes. His expression didn’t reveal anything about what he was thinking, which Diego found somewhat infuriating. He hated it when he couldn't read people well, when he couldn't predict them. It made them harder to fight if he didn't know what their next move was going to be. Vanya had been like that, impossible to read. And look where it had landed him. 

Determined to get a reaction, Diego decided to push the doctor further with his next response. 

“And this one?” Dr Moncton pushed another card across the desk.

Diego smirked, leaning back in his seat, “I can see the Dealey Plaza on November 22nd 1963. President Kennedy is riding down the street in the motorcade. On the sixth floor of the building, Lee Harvey Oswald is aiming for the back of JFK’s head. He’s going to kill the president... But not if I can stop him first.”

It didn’t seem like the doctor saw the funny side. He was still annoyingly blank. 

After a few more meaningless ink blots, Dr Moncton pursed his lips but gave an orderly permission to remove the straitjacket. They weren’t gentle about it. Grateful to have the use of his arms back, Diego stretched them above his head to get rid of cramps and shook his hands in an attempt to get the blood flowing again. With a wince, he rolled the shoulder that he’d injured just a few days earlier and noted it had started aching again. Really, he still needed it strapped up in a sling. 

"I'm trusting you, Diego," The doctor was using his name again, like they were buddies, "One wrong move and it's back in the isolation room." 

He’d need both of his arms- and his sharp instincts- if he was going to escape from this place. Diego decided he'd play nice for a little while longer, until the sedatives had worn off completely. Escaping this place would be easier when his head was clear again. Keeping his eyes open for potential escape routes, Diego got to his feet and followed Dr Moncton to the dining hall. They’d finished his stupid tests just in time for dinner. It was lucky they had. During the session, Diego had realised he was starving and his stomach was starting to complain, grumbling loudly. 

The dining hall smelled bleach-clean and was scrubbed shiny white, just like everything else here. While Diego had never been to high school himself, the room reminded him of the school cafeterias he’d seen on TV so many times. Round tables clumped with people, some chattering and others staring miserably at nothing in particular. He had to line up behind the other patients, all dressed in the same dreadful shade of white, and wait for his chance to be handed a plastic tray. The food looked pretty nasty. But he was hungry enough that he probably would've eaten Luther's disgusting socks if given the chance. 

None of the other patients dared speak to him but some watched as he enthusiastically shovelled meatloaf into his mouth. He was so hungry that he barely tasted the food. While some gazes were scrutinising, trying to work him out, most of them were just interested. Excited to get a new look at the latest animal in the zoo. Diego didn't pay anyone else much attention, chugging his glass of souring milk like it was ambrosia. 

He didn’t even notice someone slamming their tray down across from him.

“Are you going for some kind of record or just trying to choke yourself?” 

Diego spared the girl a brief glance, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “Just enjoying the cuisine.”

He wasn’t particularly in the mood to make chitchat but scanning the girl quickly told him that he wasn't going to get a choice. Unlike Dr Moncton, the stranger sitting across from him was plenty easy to read. He knew her type. The wild look in her eyes, mess of hair, and chewed cardigan sleeve told him immediately that this wasn't a girl he'd be able to shrug off easily. Just like Klaus, she'd no doubt keep bothering him despite any attempts to drive her away. Telling her to fuck off would only result in her bouncing back to him, more eager than ever to spend time with him. People like this, girls like her, were hard to shake off. Too persistent, too stubborn. 

There was a sparkle in her dark eyes as she laughed, “You’re funny. I like you.”


	3. September 07 1963

Group therapy was something he was dreading. While individual therapy, (sitting silently with his arms folded in Dr Moncton’s office), had been bad enough, at least nobody else was around to witness it. The idea of other people’s eyes being trained on him while Dr Moncton tried to probe into his mind aggravated him and he wasn't exactly keen to hear about other people's problems either. Why was there no privacy in this place?

Although Diego had never been particularly shy, having grown up with six other siblings, it had still been humiliating for an orderly to watch as he stripped off his clothes and showered. The water had been freezing and memories flashed rapidly through his mind of when his father used to submerge him in cold water during his ‘training’ sessions. Once he’d found out Diego could hold his breath indefinitely, Reginald Hargreeves wanted to test the limits of his ability, hoping he’d sprout gills or do something more interesting in the water. He was always disappointed.

Closing his eyes and resting his hand against the cool tiles to steady himself, Diego had tried to push the memories away. He heard the orderly snicker behind him, not for the first time. The staff seemed to delight in laughing at patients, mocking and pushing them around to get a rise out of them. Diego had made a conscious effort not to shiver for the rest of his shower and was reminded of how he'd had to push his feelings down around his father. 

Now, he was expected to give over his brain as well as his body. As soon as breakfast was over.

“Cheer up, Hargreeves,” Somebody clapped him on the back, “It’s not all bad.”

It had been three days since his initial assessment by Dr Moncton and Diego was pushing his rubbery eggs around with his fork, unable to stomach them. He missed his mom’s pancakes. He missed how they always smiled up at him, faces crafted carefully out of blueberries, as if his breakfast was happy to see him. He missed his mom more than anything- but didn’t intend to share that tidbit with anyone here. 

Unlike the first day, he wasn’t sitting alone at an empty table and was instead sat near a few other patients. It hadn’t been his choice; there wasn’t enough tables for him to have one to himself this morning. An older patient, a man called Patrick, had been the one to slap him on the back in a friendly manner as he passed by. They’d never spoken before but Patrick smiled as he sat beside him. It was a kind, slightly dazed smile. 

“The first few days are rough, I know. It’s hard to adjust to life on the inside,” The older man continued, “But you get used to it after a while.”

“Thanks, man,” Diego offered half-heartedly.

He didn’t intend to be here long enough to get used to it. He was getting out. Already, he’d found a weak spot in the building- the bathrooms in the left wing were being redecorated and had been temporarily closed off to both staff and patients. Only a few handymen passed through each day with tools and paint, looking uncomfortable that they had to walk through the asylum and even more so when Diego started trailing them to check out the potential escape route.

When the orderlies caught him hanging around the closed off area, he’d feigned being lost. Luckily, they seemed to buy it, even if they had mocked him for it:

_”You sure are lost, amigo. Need help finding your way back to Cuba?”_

He wasn’t even fucking Cuban. Racist bastards.

Patrick was still talking at him, “- in group, otherwise they’ll revoke your shower privileges.”

It must’ve been clear that Diego had zoned out by his confused frown because the man just sighed and shook his head. Patrick went back to eating his breakfast, whatever helpful advice he’d been offering having fallen on deaf ears. Nobody else bothered to make conversation with him. Diego gave up on playing with his food and went to bus his tray, which meant sliding it onto a large rack with the other empty trays.

Unfortunately, there was a loud plastic “clack” as somebody else on the other side of the rack tried to slide their tray onto the same shelf. The trays bounced off each other and only Diego’s quick reflexes saved his from hitting the floor. He slid it onto a different shelf.

A familiar dark haired girl bounced into sight from the other side of the rack. Lila Pitts.

She was wearing a mischievous grin on her face, “Sorry, I nearly gotcha right in the nose then.”

Instead of answering, Diego just grunted in response and turned away. As he had predicted on the first night, she didn’t take the hint to leave him alone. Instead, she raced to catch up with him. He wasn’t surprised. For the last three days, Lila had found any excuse she could to hang around with him and natter in his ear about whatever was on her mind. It was annoying yet, (he’d never admit this to her), strangely comforting. The inane chatter reminded him of his favourite brother.

Still, he wasn’t exactly here to make friends. For the most part, Diego tuned her out.

“- to hear all your juicy, dirty secrets, mystery man." 

Pushing open the double doors, they got the nod from the orderlies and ambled in the direction of the group therapy room. The closer they got, the more Diego felt his gut twist itself into knots. Thinking about sharing his “feelings” with a group of strangers made him feel sick to his stomach and frown deeply, an expression that Allison had once dubbed “emotional constipation”. It wasn’t really his fault. Growing up, any sign of weakness had been frowned upon by Reginald Hargreeves and he had learnt quickly that showing any sign of upset would be labelled as pathetic.

One of his earliest memories was being ridiculed for crying over a scraped knee. He’d fallen down during training because Luther had stuck his foot out to trip him- they were three or four at the time. Bursting into tears had only caused his father to tut and demand _“will crying save the world, Number Two?”_

Diego froze outside the door marked for group, hand instinctively reaching for a knife he didn’t have. Grasping at nothing, his hand curled into a fist instead and his nails dug into his palm.

“Oh, you cannot be serious,” Lila rolled her eyes, “Don’t be such a pussy, Diego.”

It was the first time that she’d used his forename. He didn’t know why it gave him a rush.

Elbowing him out of the way, she pushed open the door and held it open so that he could step gingerly inside. Just like at Klaus’s AA meetings, the chairs had been arranged into a circle and Dr Moncton was already sitting on one. He was in charge of their group meetings, as well as being the therapist handling Diego's case, and had already told him that he was looking forward to hearing Diego open up a bit more in group. Looking up from his notes, the doctor seemed pleased to see him. The whole thing was a damn farce.

Both hands in fists at his side now, Diego stalked across the circle and sat as far away as possible from Dr Moncton. The bastard just noted something down on his clipboard. Escaping Lila wasn’t so easy. She flopped into the chair next to him and brought up one leg so that she could rest her chin on her knee. Somehow, she was still talking.

“You know, my mother always said men are good at two things: sex and murder. But the more time I spend with you, the more I think she should add brooding to the list. Seriously, you’re like a toddler whose toys got taken away-“

Diego glanced sideways at her, “Just stop talking.”

“ _At last_ , he speaks. I was starting to think you’d swallowed your tongue,” Lila told him haughtily, waggling her own tongue at him.

Just then, the other patients started filing him and she started giving him the rundown on what everyone was doing here. Schizophrenic. Depressive. A criminal who’d pleaded insanity to get off. Bipolar. Addict. Lesbian. Diego hadn’t known that being gay was a reason to get sent to an asylum but he noted it was best to keep his own bisexuality under wraps. Last thing he needed was a healthy dose of electroshock therapy to “cure him”. Absentmindedly, he wondered how his flamboyant brother Klaus and closeted sister Vanya were surviving in the 1960s- if they had made here at all. 

“And you?” Diego leaned in to murmur in her ear curiously.

Lila winked at him, “You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

She was a shameless flirt. It would’ve been attractive in any other circumstances.

Once everyone had taken their seats, they had to take in turns to introduce themselves and choose an adjective for how they were feeling today. When Dr Moncton told them that, Diego had to smother a laugh behind his hand and hope that nobody noticed him snickering. His hopes were dashed immediately when he looked up and met the doctor’s sharp gaze. Self consciously, Diego let his hand fall back into his lap and pretended to be interested in his nails.

His punishment was that the Doctor Moncton made him go first.

“My name’s Diego Hargreeves,” He leaned back in his chair, rocking on the back two legs, “And-“

“Both feet on the floor, please,” The doctor told him, “We wouldn’t want an accident.”

Scowling, he reluctantly lowered the chair back onto the ground; there was a resounding slap of the heels of his shoes being planted on the floor and one of the other patients flinched at the noise. Diego couldn’t help remembering when they’d sat on similar chairs as kids- for their lessons- and how he’d never been able to keep still during their lessons, much to his father’s annoyance. Only when he had the cold weight of a knife pressing into his hand, running his thumb over the handle, had Diego even been able to take in half of what they were studying.

“What are you thinking about, Diego?”

Reflexively, he opened his mouth and the words tumbled out, “We had chairs like this in our classroom. When we were little…”

Doctor Moncton clicked his pen, looking interested, “We?”

He froze, except for his leg which kept bouncing up and down independently, and closed his mouth again. Diego hadn't intended to spill anything in group. He knew from the police academy how even the littlest details given away in interviews could be used as evidence in a court of law- therapy had to be a similar deal, he figured. Across the circle, the doctor was gesturing for him to go on. How had he fallen into such a simple trap? Now, if he refused to say anymore, they’d probably lock him up again for not complying with their stupid rules. The sound of Diego’s foot drumming against the floor and one of the other patients sucking on their cigarette filled the quiet of the room.

“Me and my siblings. We had chairs like these,” Diego supplied flatly, “We were homeschooled."

To the left of him, Lila snorted but didn’t share whatever was on her mind. He could probably guess what she was thinking though. When Diego had first met Eudora, before he’d told her about the academy, she’d thought it was amusing that he was homeschooled. Said it explained a lot. Teased him about being emotionally stunted because of it. _God, Diego missed her._

“I wonder, did you ever compare yourself to your siblings?” Doctor Moncton asked.

This time, it was Diego’s turn to laugh, “Hell, no. I’m awesome.”

Humming thoughtfully, the doctor took down a note on his clipboard and finally moved on to pick at the next patient’s brain. Diego could’ve sighed in relief, flopping back in his chair and relaxing his shoulders as the focus was taken off him. He could see Lila watching him out of the corner of his eye but didn’t pay her any attention, his mind back on his escape plan. Besides, he didn't want to look over and see a look of pity or curiosity on her face. 

When they did come back to him, it was because Moncton had a hypothesis for him: 

"Maybe these chairs remind you of home because you feel vulnerable sitting here. Did you feel vulnerable at home, Diego? Like you weren't safe?" 

A laugh that had been bubbling up in his chest got abruptly lodged in his throat and he found that he couldn't force it out. Instead, he just fixed his gaze on his feet and watched his knee continuing to bob in place. Something about the question- which had initially amused him- just made him feel uncomfortable and confused. Had he felt safe at home? Diego realised he didn't really know the answer to that. It was easier to roll his eyes. 

"You got all that from a fucking chair, Jung?" His answer didn't seem to please Moncton. 

After a painfully dull hour, (Diego estimated it was about an hour but couldn’t know for sure because there was no sense of time in there), they were all allowed to go to the recreation room for “quiet time”. From what Diego gathered, quiet time mostly consisted of either sitting comatose and regretting whatever you did to end up here or paging through a book if you had library privileges. It just seemed to be a low-effort way of keeping them occupied until lunchtime. He ended up playing a game of cards with Lila and another patient, a dark haired and slightly paranoid woman called Annie. 

Staring down at her cards, Lila took a long drag on a cigarette and offered it to him, “Smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” Diego waved her hand away, “I don’t put that shit in my body.”

He was one of the few among his siblings that didn’t smoke. While Klaus was the only nicotine _addict_ , he knew that Allison often took a pack up to the roof when she was feeling stressed and that Vanya was a ‘social smoker’. Not that she spent enough time with other people for it to be a problem. As for the rest… The idea of Five smoking made him smirk at his cards. It had been funny enough to watch him slurp a neon green margarita. 

Lila let the cigarette dangle from her mouth again, “Suit yourself, homeschool. Speaking of which, your little issues in group therapy got me thinking,” She didn’t wait for a response before continuing, “Is everyone in your family as messed up as you are or are you a special case?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything and the silence lingered in the air. Both of the women had eyes on him and he wondered if they would parrot whatever he said back to the staff, spilling his secrets in exchange for privileges. Sort of like when criminals gave up their partners for a shorter sentence. Though, he hadn't heard Annie say a single word since he'd been introduced to her- she seemed like the quiet sort. 

Then, Diego shrugged, “Pretty much. I got off pretty easy compared to the others.”

“You don’t say…” Lila winked at him. Gross.

After quiet time, they had a disgusting lunch of what looked like macaroni cheese but certainly didn’t taste like it- the consistency was completely off. At the end of lunch, the nurses delivered pills to each of the patients along with paper cups full of water. While a few patients had taken additional meds at breakfast, the majority were scheduled to take their daily dosage between lunch and arts and crafts. Diego watched carefully as the table next to his underwent the process. Each patient had to take their medication, while the nurses watched and then checked under their tongues to make sure they swallowed them.

Dr Moncton had told him that he would be starting meds today- at the time, Diego had thought he could just fake swallowing them and get away with it.

Now, he was feeling less sure about his plan.

When the nurse got to him, she instructed him to hold out his hand and shook out two round orange pills onto his palm. Diego wasn’t sure what they were- although, he suspected antipsychotics and/or sedatives- but there was no way in hell that he was going to take them. Not when he didn’t know what the pills were. What if they made him slow and sluggish like the last sedatives had? That would bring his escape plans to a grinding halt.

He just wouldn’t take them. It wasn’t like he needed them anyway. He wasn’t Klaus, constantly chasing a high, or even Vanya, who’d been on mood stabilisers since she was an infant- he was Diego, for fuck’s sake, he was one of the sane ones. This was bullshit.

“It’s not optional, Hargreeves,” The nurse said strictly.

Diego glowered: “I’m not crazy.”

Across the table from him, Lila had already swallowed her own meds and was now watching on in amusement, as if he was a mildly interesting TV show rather than a person. A few of the others at their table were eyeing him too, some of them a little nervously, but most removed themselves when the nurse prompted them too. Lila didn't go- she ripped her arm out of the nurse's grip and kept watching curiously. The pills felt out of place in Diego's clenched fist, pressing into his skin. 

“If you won’t take your medication willingly, we’ll have to administer it with a needle,” The nurse told him firmly.

Just the thought of another needle piercing his skin made him shudder. Diego had hated the stupid things ever since he was little and had never been able to shake the irrational fear. He remembered when he’d needed stitches on the side of his head and the sight of his mother with the needle had caused him to throw up in his lap. Thank god nobody else had witnessed that. He watched as a nurse muttered something to Lila and she reluctantly got to her feet, skulking out of the room. 

“Fine, fine,” Diego mumbled, forcing his hands to relax, “I’ll take them.”

It hadn’t escaped his notice than two of the orderlies, who had been supervising the door and escorting the other patients out, had sidled over to make sure he didn’t cause any trouble. As Lila weaved her way between them and strode towards the double doors, she glanced back over her shoulder to look at him again. There was an intrigued twinkle in her eye. Diego took the paper cup of water and stared down at the pills, sticking to his clammy palm.

“Over my dead body!” Diego growled, leaping up from his seat and was immediately slammed against the table, his face being pushed into the leftovers of his macaroni cheese.

It didn’t taste anything like the kind his Mom made at home.


End file.
